


Annointed

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Massage, Period-Typical Sexism, Pregnancy, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 14:36:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15439224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: He watches as Catelyn sighs, almost forgetting her prayer in the midst of her relief. He knows – at least he thinks – she loves him, in her own quiet way, but for Catelyn love and duty are one and the same. She bears the world, for him. She bears the presence of his bastard. She bears always being the foreigner. She bears the Northern cold. And she does it all for him, because she is his wife, and that is what a wife should do.But it is her gods that bear her. That carry her when she thinks she can go no further.Ned wishes he could bear that weight for her. That he could soothe her when everything seems to much. But he does not know how.





	Annointed

**Author's Note:**

> Kink generator provided: religious fetishisation + massage. Did not end up terribly kinky though.

It gets so very hot in this sept.

Ned does not visit it often – he has no reason to – but when he does, he's always caught off guard by the heat. It seems near a miracle, how the stained glass can capture what few rays of light the North provides and turn it into something near an inferno. He wonders how Catelyn can stand it, but then again, she wonders the same about him and the cold, so he supposes it is all a matter of perspective.

It's not as if he's meaning to spy. It's simply a message has come through from further south, and he would like Catelyn's advice on it. But at the same time, he has no which to interrupt her prayers. It's nothing urgent.

He watches from a distance as Septon Chayle recites words from the Seven Pointed Star. Catelyn sits alone, without even Mordane there as company, and Ned wonders if this is meant to be a private ceremony. Should he leave?

Catelyn kneels before the altar, her eyes fluttering closed, and she says words like she's said them a thousand times before. “Father, Mother, Warrior, Smith, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” Catelyn speaks, while Septon Chayle smiles at her. “A prayer, an askance.”

Ned's eyes drift down to his wife's belly – he knows she is with child, she told him as much over a moon ago. But just now is it starting to show in her. It is the first time he's been here to witness her carrying his child, and it fills him with joy and dread. As well it might.

“Do you wish to ask any of the Seven in particular, child?” Chayle asks, and Catelyn bites her lip.

“The Mother. Of course, the Mother.” Her hand drifts down to her belly unthinkingly. Of course, Cat prays to the Mother.

Ned sighs as he watches from afar. Cat looks so stiff, as well she might on these cold wood benches. It's more than that though. His wife too fears what might come of a birthing gone wrong, more than him even – after all, it is her life at stake. But Catelyn would never dream of denying him his issue. She knows her duties, and will carry them until the day she dies. And she does carry them, until some days it seems she will be crushed under their weight. His wife is only nine and ten, scarcely more than a girl really – scarcely younger than him – but sometimes she seems so much older.

He frowns. He has no reason to be so melancholy; no reason to think the babe Cat carries anything other than joyful, a beautiful daughter, perhaps, to match their son. But he is cautious, by nature, and so is she.

Septon Chayle nods and, from beneath the alter, fetches a small bronze pot, emblazoned with the same star that fills the window, and the sky through it.

The scent of fruit fills their air, rich, strong and southern. Ned almost wants to cringe from it. It smells of luxury, of all the decadence of the capital. Frankly, though he wants very much to respect, to understand his wife's religion, part of him feels worship should not be conducted such a way.

But if it gives Cat comfort.

Chayle dips his thumb in the oil, and gently, traces a streak of it across Cat's brow. Ned watches as she gasps, softly, as the fluid hits her skin, and then she shivers, the tension in her body finally seeming to fade as her gods seep into her. Ned swallows the lump in his throat.

A lesser man would be jealous.

What an absurd thought; he knows perfectly well there's no chance of Chayle being a threat to his marriage, even without the vows of a septon. And Cat, of course, would never stray (a thought he's sorry to remember she cannot have about him). It is simply strangeness, that's all; this ritual is so unfamiliar to him that he infuses it with things it is not at all, filthy thoughts beneath a Stark of Winterfell. Gods, Robert was a bad influence on him.

But it's not Chayle he envies. It's those gods. He watches as Catelyn sighs, almost forgetting her prayer in the midst of her relief. He knows – at least he thinks – she loves him, in her own quiet way, but for Catelyn love and duty are one and the same. She bears the world, for him. She bears the presence of his bastard. She bears always being the foreigner. She bears the Northern cold. And she does it all for him, because she is his wife, and that is what a wife should do.

But it is her gods that bear her. That carry her when she thinks she can go no further.

Ned wishes he could bear that weight for her. That he could soothe her when everything seems to much. But he does not know how.

Finally, Cat remembers her words, and starts rattling off a plea to the Mother asking for a safe birth and a healthy babe. Ned suspects she's said those words before, that they are a common prayer for women with child, that Cat knows them by rote (he notices that nowhere in them does Cat think to ask for her own life). But the words mean little. It is the gesture she needs. The bright light and the orchard scent, and the memory of home.

Ned wishes he could be the one to give her what she needs. He watches as Chayle covers his thumb in oil once more, tracing it along Catelyn's chin, nose, brow, cheeks, an echo of the star that adorns her small sept.

He wants to rub that oil into his wife's skin. He wants to watch it drip down her neck, make her smell sweet and ripe. He wants to lay her down onto a wolfs pelt, by the roaring flame, and strip her bare, exposing every swell and stretchmark she might fear him seeing. He wants to touch her all over, to spread the smell of apples and apricots to every crook in her body, to kiss and stroke and god knows what until every worry and burden floats away. He wants to leave her soft, pliant and happy, as bare and as free as the gods made her.

Ned feels heat rising under his skin, not from the sun. Gods, that's a terrible thing to think. He knows perfectly well Cat would not let him profane her sacred oils in such a way. They mean something to her, and that's far more important than his lusts. Gods, even Robert wouldn't do such a thing.

Before he knows it the ritual is over, and Catelyn gets to her feet, giving Septon Chayle her most polite goodbyes.

Ned holds his breath as Cat spots him, and smiles as she makes her way over. When she meets him, they are far from the realm of gods, but in the land of man and woman.

 


End file.
